If week one was survival mode, one month in was organized chaos with aesthetic lighting. The mansion no longer felt like a battlefield. It felt… claimed. Baby blankets draped over chairs that used to host intimidating meetings. Bottles drying beside crystal glassware. A stroller parked near the grand staircase like it paid rent. And today? The naming ceremony.
Andrew stood in front of the full-length mirror in his dressing room, adjusting his cuffs for the third time. His golden-brown hair was styled but still slightly soft at the edges — sleep deprivation refusing to be completely tamed.
Honey drifted low and controlled. Calm. Intentional. But under it—Nerves. Behind him, on the chaise lounge, his omega father watched with folded arms and an expression that said he had raised this dramatic man himself.
"You've checked those cuffs six times."
His dad said smoothly. Andrew didn't turn around.
"Four."
"Six."
A beat.
"…Five."
